Yesterday, my MIL Skyped us as she was settling down with a nice glass of white to watch Britain's Got Talent
Apparently she had been chatting to her friend at the gym ( a lady who has a son who is "on the same bus as us"....so to speak) who informed her that The Eurovision Song Contest ( the final of which, was to be shown on the BBC last night) was heavily supported and enjoyed by the GAY community.
surprisingly, this seemed to be new news to my mother in law....after all why on earth would anyone gay follow something that could not get any camper unless Judy Garland had been exhumed to appear singing a duet with Barry Manilow whilst Liberace accompanied them on the piano?
Now perhaps , for the sake of my follower Fanny who lives in Tasmania, I should explain what Eurovison actually is?........simply put, Eurovision is a camp, kitsch, unfairly judged, international song contest that is gently ridiculed by many and taken incredibly seriously by many more..
It has production values that could keep Malta going for ten years, more divas than in the Joan Collins appreciation society and from it's simple 1950 roots where Judith Chalmers actually rang the judges up on the telephone contraption for their marks....it has become an epic on a par with JJ Abrams Star Trek for it has smoke , mirrors and lots of explosions.....
As a child , I adored Eurovision .
As an adult, I can take or leave it.....but last night.....after enjoying two hours of serial killer lecture... I did find myself drawn into the campy, unreality of the show, as one of the Scandinavian hosts belted out a rubbishy ditty whilst Dancers dressed as large Swedish meatballs bounced around the stage...
No wonder gays from across the globe enjoy it...
More escapism you could only get if you were suffering from a florid schizophrenic episode.
Here is my favourite of the evening... Georgia's " WATERFALL" by the delightfully restrained And remarkably classy looking Sophie Gelovani and the rather dashing Nodi Tatishvili....
They didn't do well, unfortunately, but did get 20 points more than poor Bonnie Tyler.... The old Welsh rocker.....bless her little cotton socks
Tonight the village gets riddled with " ripper fever" as the long awaited Jack The Ripper lecture comes to the Memorial Hall.Now I did mention to Auntie Glad that she would have made a delightful old Victorian crone if we made her up with a shawl and a basket of lavender and sat her on the village Hall steps , but she said her cockney wasn't up to it.......especially when her " cor lummy...ave a banana" comes out less like Nancy out of Oliver and more like Gladys Pugh from Hi De Hi. I am in two minds setting a bonfire on the allotment next to the memorial Hall at 6.45pm ... Some atmospheric " fog" would set the scene quite beautifully as the punters arrive for their evening of gore. I'll mention it to affable despot Jason a bit later....I am sure he'll be up for it
Anyhow, I'll close with a big thank you to fellow blogger Em Parkinson, who from her
Delightful rural backwater in the South East, sent me some of her artwork of Wiliam and
George ( below)
We collected the framed pictures today and they look beautiful on the cottage wall
Thank you so much Em for making such an effort
And all for the price of a sad scotch egg sent in the post
Sometimes it's important to take time over something. Some tasks need care and patience. Some things should not be rushed.
Every morning, I let the blind cockerel, Cogburn out of the controlled environment of his run, for some exercise. I can only do this when the other cockerels and the geese are safely out of the way, for as big as he is, he remains the most vulnerable animal on the field.
I have a 101 things to do most mornings. Today was no different. I needed to fill the water butts on the field border, the eggs in the incubator in the kitchen needed candling, potatoes needed to be planted in bosoms, which is now full of weeds after the overnight rain and I needed to start the strimming of the mountains of nettles which are now screening the pig pen, but something in Cogburn's behaviour made me pause for a moment in order to watch him.
In the breeze and the early morning sunshine, Cogburn seemed to blossom. He moved his big feet on the grass, like a city dweller does when on the beach for the first time , and he turned his head to face the warmth of the sun, blinking his unseeing eyes slowly and carefully in obvious enjoyment.
It may sound odd to say it, but it was incredibly moving to see the big fella so alive and so vital.
Despite the list of jobs, irritatingly fixed inside my head.
I slowly sat down beside the blind old cockerel to let him enjoy the morning sun without being rushed
